


Last Day Alive

by Raine_Wynd



Category: Highlander: The Series, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Action/Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Favors, Foul Language (Swearing), Friendship, Gen, Immortals, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-01-23 19:23:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18556213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raine_Wynd/pseuds/Raine_Wynd
Summary: Favors have consequences - and Clint discovers that favors from other immortals have dangerous strings attached.Sequel to Ain't No Grave.***abandoned and unfinished work as of 6/9/19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ain't No Grave](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13475028) by [Raine_Wynd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raine_Wynd/pseuds/Raine_Wynd). 



> Canon notes: Set post-Civil War, and any MCU canon after that is gleefully ignored. I do not watch Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. so that isn’t part of this either. Also, Highlander sixth season and the atrocity known as _Highlander: Endgame_ didn’t happen.
> 
> This will make likely more sense if you read Ain't No Grave first.

####  _Saturday, February 3, 2018_

One week after taking his first Quickening, Clint opened the door to his condo. Natasha lounged on the couch, looking as though she had been waiting a while. Mentally sighing, aware he had been avoiding her by staying with Cory to work through the aftermath of taking his first Quickening, Clint braced himself for her questions. Natasha rarely abused the trust he had given her by giving her a key; that she was here now meant she had correctly assessed his behavior and was done waiting for him to face her.

Confident Natasha would wait for him to go through his home-now routine, he chose not to rush. Shutting the door, he locked it and then took off the winter-weight aviator leather jacket he wore, then toed off his shoes, leaving them by the door. As was his habit, he set the jacket on the back of the dining room chair. He then moved to drop off his duffel bag in the bedroom before coming back to sit on the other end of the couch.

“How much of the fight with Evan Solli did you see?” he asked her.

“Came in just as you shot Cory,” Natasha told him. “At first, I thought you were stopping him because we needed to ask Evan questions, but then you decapitated Evan. Why?”

“Because Cory would tell you Evan was no longer a problem; ergo, it doesn’t matter where or how he got Chitauri-tech-integrated weapons.” At Natasha’s questioning look, Clint explained, “Cory’s priorities are having fun, helping the hungry and the poor, and how he can maintain his reputation for being a prankster. Anything else is secondary. He makes exceptions for certain friends and specific situations.”

“He helped you.”

“Because it amuses him to know he trained me.” Clint grinned. “I do like knowing Robin Hood isn’t a myth.”

“You believe him on that claim?”

Clint shrugged. “Until I have reason to believe otherwise, yes. I trust Cory’s story. The night he freed me, he was prepared to let me walk away with nothing more than a basic sketch of what immortality was and a sword.”

Startled, Natasha frowned. “That doesn’t seem like enough.”

Clint snorted. “Hell, no, it’s not. Cory doesn’t care who wins or loses in the Game. It’s not his head on the line; ergo, it’s irrelevant.”

“Yet he chose to teach you. Cory has an interesting code of honor.”

Clint nodded. “Also means he tends not to think of consequences beyond saving his ass. You thought Cory was lying.” He took a seat on the couch opposite Natasha.

“I considered the convenience of him being exactly where you needed him when you needed him,” Natasha said, leaning back in the couch. “A friend of his kidnapped you and took you to his house. How do you know he didn’t pay her to hurt you?”

“Because he didn’t know Marlene was there,” Clint shot back, annoyed. He understood the former Russian spy’s paranoia, even shared it to a degree. “He was going to live in that house; he was running from Evan Solli at the time. He didn’t mention he had run into another of Evan’s minions and decided retreating was better. He figured if he ignored Evan and basically went somewhere Evan wasn’t, then Evan would leave him alone.”

That made Natasha blink. “He was running away? He didn’t want to fight Evan?”

“No. He told me the night he freed me that running away was one of his favorite options to avoid a fight with another immortal.”

“But he willingly faced Evan,” Natasha said, confused. “What’s the difference?”

“Difference is if he didn’t challenge Evan, Evan would keep sending minions to fight him until he was overwhelmed or lost. Cory gambled Evan was sending minions because he was not a skilled fighter; all of the ones he sent were inexperienced or had been forced to take Quickenings.”

Natasha studied Clint. “When he was explaining immortality to us, he said that you get a knowledge transfer through something called a Quickening. Was that lightning I saw the Quickening?”

“Yeah,” Clint said. “It’s why I texted you the info about where Evan bought the weapons.”

“Which is under investigation now,” Natasha replied. “The ATF is handling it. How do you force someone to take a Quickening?”

Grimly, Clint responded, “Strap them to a chair, behead someone else, and step back so the Quickening doesn’t come to you. Preferably when the person in the chair is least ready to take on everything the beheaded person was, so you either wind up with someone who is stronger for the input or who is fractured because the beheaded person took over the new body.”

Little horrified Natasha, but even she looked disturbed by that image. “No wonder you were screaming.” She leaned forward intently and studied him for several minutes. “You don’t look like you were unmade.”

“I won,” Clint noted. He took no pride in killing; it was a means to an end.

She chose her next words carefully. “You didn’t just take Evan’s head for that info. You could have pressed Cory for it. He doesn’t strike me as someone who would handle being interrogated well.”

“The only one of us in that house who could get away with it was me,” Clint said steadily. “We as Avengers had reason to be in that house. He was a civilian; technically, we should have left him out of the house entirely. You looked up Cory; you know he doesn’t exist under Cory Raines and hasn’t for twenty years. I’m not about to fuck that up for him, especially when we have to answer for everything we do now.”

Natasha nodded. “I thought so. His current driver’s license and passport say he’s Brad Corin. How long did he say he’s been a thief?”

“Over seven centuries, but he’s been spending the last twenty being a mostly law-abiding citizen.”

Natasha considered that data. “Gone straight after centuries?”

“Cory told me this way he sails under the radar more and can spend more time having fun rather than worrying about whether he’ll get arrested again.” Clint grinned, thinking of his teacher. “His idea of fun involves sex, liquor, gambling, and pranking people, not necessarily in that order.”

“Can anyone spend their time just doing that?”

“I trust him to lift a few wallets and run a few cons while he’s at it,” Clint admitted, shrugging. “It would be like asking you to stop being paranoid.”

Chuckling, Natasha acknowledged that with a slight nod. “Do you still owe him anything?”

Clint barked a laugh. “Yeah, I do, but I’m not going to worry about it. When he calls wanting payback, I’ll take a page out of his other friends’ books – figure out how much trouble he’s in and if it’s something I’m willing to do.”

“And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime, I promised him I’d meet him on Saturday at an archery range.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Bring him to the Training Facility. I want to see who wins.”

“What makes you think the range I meant wasn’t that one?” Clint asked, offended. “You think I’m going to go against Robin Hood himself and not make sure I know the range?”

Natasha pursed her lips. “Good point. One thing: do you want the other Avengers to know about immortality?”

“I’ll tell them,” Clint decided. “For now, I’d like to limit who knows how much I can heal to you, Wanda, and Steve. It’s not that I don’t trust Thor, Bruce, Bucky, Sam, or Tony.” He paused. “Do we even know where Thor is? Or Bruce?”

Natasha shook her head. “No one has seen Bruce since he took the quinjet and left. Jane said she and Thor broke up, so she doesn’t expect him to be back on this planet any time soon. That leaves Bucky, Sam, and Tony. Sam will need to know, since he often acts as our team medic. Tony might get a little huffy since he likes to know what’s going on. Bucky – hard to say, but I don’t think you have to worry about him freaking out about it.”

“It’s not the freaking out I’m worried about,” Clint countered. “I’m more concerned about how Sam and Tony will act once they know. Bucky will want to know if it’s another supersoldier serum knockoff. Beyond that, I don’t think he’ll care. Tony can keep a secret, but he’ll start looking for others; he can get obsessed that way, and I don’t need him to go looking.”

“Because he’ll find someone who doesn’t want to be found,” Natasha surmised, “or stir up a hornet’s nest by looking.”

“From what Cory’s told me, if you assume immortals are like everyone else, then it makes sense some of us are working in places that won’t take kindly to having non-humans in them. Look at what happened with us and the Sokovia Accords.”

Grimacing at the reminder, Natasha nodded. “We save him for last. Why are you worried about Sam?”

“Because he’s going to be one of the few fully human Avengers left. Scott says ever since he started wearing the Ant-Man suit, he can talk to ants, even without the equipment, so he doesn’t count.”

Natasha nodded. “And you think he’s not going to take it well?”

“He and I bonded over being boring but talented humans on a team with super-powered people.” Clint let out a breath. “And I think he will feel a bit left out.”

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####  _Wednesday, March 7_

“Cory, you cannot just expect me to hop on a plane to Paris; that’s not how my life works,” Clint argued heatedly as he looked at the videocall on his phone. He paced the overlook of the Avengers Training Facility, unwilling to stay in his quarters but equally unable to leave the compound due to the stated threat of superhuman domestic terrorist who called himself Blood Wing. “We have a situation.”

“Not even to get a custom-made coat from the finest leather tailor I know?” Cory tried. “Be easier to wear a sword that way.”

“Another time,” Clint said, aware that the call to assemble could be any minute now. The more time he spent arguing with his teacher, the less time he would have to prepare.

Cory looked disappointed. “Fine, but you’re missing out.”

“Yeah, yeah, story of my life.”

Cory shifted his carryon to his shoulder. Dressed in a black blazer, blue dress shirt, jeans, and black boots, he looked like a business executive. Clint suspected his teacher’ choice of attire was deliberate. Cory was an expert at blending in; it was part of what made him a successful bank robber and con artist. From the décor around Cory, Clint could tell he was at one of the smaller regional airports, taking a private charter, where going through security was less of a hassle than elsewhere. “I’ll see you when I get back, then, and we’ll see who’s better at longbow.”

Clint snorted. “Just because we’re dead even on crossbow doesn’t mean I’m going to take that challenge. I never learned longbow. Crossbow and recurve; that’s all I know. And no, Cory, I don’t need to know longbow.”

“Suppose you’re right. If you needed a long-range weapon, you’d pick a rifle,” Cory mused. “You did enjoy learning it, though?”

“It was fun, but damn, I can see why an archer would want a sword for a backup,” Clint agreed. “If you ran out of arrows, you were screwed until you could get more, and given the rate of fire, you had to be ready for either. Have a safe flight to Paris.” He disconnected the call, then noticed Steve hanging back at the edge of the entrance to the overlook. Certain Steve had heard at least part of the call, if not all of it, Clint braced himself for questions. “Something up, Cap?”

Steve half-smiled and stepped closer. “Local cops got the drop on Blood Wing,” he informed Clint. “Turns out he’s a disgruntled fifteen-year-old boy with his family’s firearms collection, including some homemade incendiaries. No powers.”

Clint grimaced. “How’d they manage it?”

“His little sister ratted him out because he was holding her therapy dog hostage and not having him was making her crazy.”

Clint stared at Steve. “Yeah, that was not a smart move.” He shook his head. “I was a disgruntled fifteen-year-old, but I wouldn’t have dreamed of threatening a group of superheroes. What the hell was that kid thinking?”

Steve shook his head. “No clue,” he said. “I was angry when I was fifteen, but mostly at not having a healthy body, not other people. In any case, I wanted to tell you we’re no longer on lockdown. If you wanted to get out of here, go somewhere, you’re free to go.”

“Thanks.”

From the look Steve gave him, Clint realized Steve had overheard his conversation with Cory.

“If you’re thinking I’ll follow Cory to Paris, I’m not. He’s going to meet with friends of his, and from the stories he’s told me, at least one of them is likely to get him into trouble.” Clint paused. “If not all of them. Or he’ll get them in trouble – it’s a fair bet either way.”

“Best avoid that then,” Steve said, chuckling. “Though given how you’ve been spending a lot of time with him lately, I was expecting you’d go.”

Not for the first time, Clint thought he worked with far too many observant people. “If you have a question, Steve, ask.”

“Are you spending time with him because he’s teaching you or because you owe him?”

“Because he’s a guy,” Clint clarified, “who happens to know how to survive seven centuries without losing his head. Given I might have that long to look forward to, spending time with him felt worth it. Yes, I owe him, and yes, we spent the last month and a half training whenever I had free time, but I also see him as a friend. Will he get me in trouble sometime? Already has, likely to do again. You got a problem with that?”

Steve shook his head. “No. Just wanted to be sure you weren’t blinded by his charm. He reminds me of some of the hustlers I knew as a kid.”

Clint waited, certain Steve had more to say.

“I also saw the paperwork you filed to change your marital status. Are you planning on going to see your kids? You haven’t been home since before you were kidnapped.”

Clint took a deep breath and let it out. “My next scheduled visitation is next weekend.” He met Steve’s gaze. “I still love Laura, but not enough to put myself through the hoops of her expectations. She wants what she already has, which is her lover and the biological father of the kids, Paul.”

Steve looked as though he had heard at least that part of the story. “Laura texted me, hoping I would talk to you. She said you were being unreasonable and wanted you to come home. I wanted to find out what ‘being unreasonable’ meant to you.”

“She’s been after me for years now to retire, stop being a sniper, spy, and agent. She thinks if I do, I might sleep better.”

“Would you?” Steve asked.

Clint scoffed at the notion. “Not when I can’t see the news and forget I have friends fighting while I’m sitting on my ass doing nothing. I put a lot of stock in making Laura happy, but she doesn’t understand or want to understand why I continue to fight. I can’t put it into words. You ever get asked why you fight?”

Steve chuckled. “One of the S.H.I.E.L.D. therapists told me I’d served my country long enough and with more than enough credit that I should consider turning the uniform and shield over to someone else. I’m not sure what I’d do if I ever did. But we’re not talking about me.”

“I’m not willing to keep having the same damned argument about retirement,” Clint explained. “Because the moment I go to that farm and see her, we’ll have it. I don’t want to retire and try to figure out what I’m doing every day. I hated corn farming when I was a kid; I don’t know why I thought hay farming was going to be any better, but Laura convinced me it was going to be fine. She brought in Paul to help with the farm because I was clueless. Then I was gone long enough, and often enough, that they got close and fell in love. I didn’t want to lose what I had, so I agreed to a polyamorous relationship. Coming back after all the shit with the Accords, Laura and I ended up having the same argument all over again.” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I came home, and she had the divorce papers ready to be signed. I got pissed off, signed them, and walked out. Now she wants to me to forget we got divorced and pick up where we left off.” He looked at Steve. “I got a really good look at what extreme husbandly devotion meant to someone else, and it made me think about what I really wanted, which is not what Laura wants.”

Steve looked sympathetic. “Which is?” He sounded curious.

“Someone who loves me and respects the work I do,” Clint said, and watched understanding blossom on the other man’s face. He paused before noting, “You aren’t asking about polyamory.”

Steve shrugged. “I’ve loved two people at the same time. Didn’t know there was a word for it until I woke up and S.H.I.E.L.D. decided to brief me about modern culture.”

“Bet that was a shocker,” Clint said, remembering how detailed formal S.H.I.E.L.D. briefings had been.

Steve half-laughed. “Mostly I was glad to have the modern terms for things I knew existed and the context for what I could say without embarrassing myself. Don’t tell Tony. He’s still under the impression I’m a repressed virgin.”

Clint chuckled. “He likes yanking your chain, or haven’t you figured that out?”

Steve grinned. “Yeah, I did. I like yanking his back. As for you and Laura: I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you. When we were there, you looked happy.”

“It was always good for the first day or so,” Clint agreed. “Especially if I brought friends.”

“In that case, I’ll let her know that I’m not going to get in the middle of her problems with you.”

“Appreciate that,” Clint said.

“Did you want to stay here the rest of the day or were you going to head back to your place in the city?”

“If you don’t need me for anything, I was thinking of heading down.” Clint grimaced. “I bought groceries for once and I’d like to not waste them again. Did you want a ride?”

“If you don’t mind? I’m supposed to be meeting the new PR manager tomorrow at the Tower, and I’m not hitching a ride again with Tony.” Steve grimaced. “He keeps asking questions I don’t want to answer about Bucky.”

“Wouldn’t have offered if I minded, and you should tell Tony to stop pushing,” Clint pointed out. “Whatever is or isn’t between you and Bucky is your business, not his.” Clint grinned. “Though I’ll admit to dying of curiosity, given what you just said.”

Steve chuckled ruefully at that. “What I want and what Bucky is ready for are two different things.”

“Tell Tony that,” Clint suggested. “Meet me in the parking lot in fifteen?”

“See you there,” Steve agreed.

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Having dropped off Steve at the Avengers Tower and taken care of most of his to-do list, Clint stopped in at his favorite bar, an unpretentious neighborhood bar with the simple name of Rusty’s Bar. Seated at the bar proper, Clint sipped a draft beer and enjoyed the pleasure of the moment. Here, he was simply another customer; no one expected him to do anything or be anyone.

He was halfway through his beer and contemplating whether he wanted a second one or if he wanted to head out when the tsunami of warning of another, much more powerful, older, and stronger immortal nearby resonated through Clint. Breathing out, Clint forced himself to focus on not betraying just how much that feeling had shaken him. _Cory did warn you,_ he reminded himself. He just hadn’t quite believed his teacher when he had said Connor MacLeod’s presence was unforgettable. Clint doubted it was anyone other than the Highlander, given where he was and the timing, but on the off chance it was someone unfriendly, Clint’s left hand went to the combat knife he kept in the inside pocket of the fleece-lined denim jacket he wore.

Clint looked over to the entrance to the pub as the door opened. A sandy-haired man with a scruffy beard, dressed in a hip-length brown leather jacket, jeans, and battered sneakers entered. If he had a sword on him, it hid in the jacket. For a moment, Clint debated leaving; he’d paid for his beer before he’d taken a sip and could go anytime. Curiosity, however, had him waiting to see what the stranger would do next.

Connor took the seat next to Clint.

“You didn’t come knocking on my door,” Connor noted, sounding highly amused by this, “so who taught you, Clint Barton?” His voice had an odd accent, not Scottish like Clint expected.

Clint studied the stranger a moment; his question left no doubt in Clint’s mind as to who he was. Experience told Clint that Connor held himself like an experienced martial artist, and the amused gaze was as much calculation as it was genuine emotion. Cory had warned him Connor MacLeod would meet him on his terms, on a day of his choosing, sometime when Clint least expected it. That day was today.

“You already know that answer, or else you wouldn’t give me the time of day. No, the better question is: why are you here now?”

Connor barked a laugh and toasted Clint. “Thought I’d introduce myself, see if you needed anything.”

Clint considered the suggestion. “If you’re making that offer to annoy Cory, go find him and pester him instead of me.” Deliberately, Clint slipped his hand out of his jacket and sipped his beer, dismissing Connor as both unimportant and not a threat. “I have everything I need.”

Connor narrowed his gaze a moment, then broke into a smile. “Let me start over, then. I’m Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, the elder Highlander. I own an antique shop on Hudson Street.”

Clint stuck out his hand for Connor to shake, and found Connor’s grip firm, calloused, and professional. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Clint Barton, aka Hawkeye. I’m an Avenger.” Certain this meeting was deliberate, he asked, “Why are you interested in me? Surely, you’ve known I existed before today. I can’t imagine a guy like you, who’s won the Gathering of 1985, not knowing just who is where, among other interesting tricks.”

Connor froze and his gaze turned sharp. “Not willing to take a hand in friendship?”

“Not when I’m sure you could’ve gone on without needing mine,” Clint said flatly. “Cory called you in January; it’s March. You didn’t want to get involved then, so: what’s different?”

The older immortal studied Clint a moment before chuckling ruefully. “I was busy then; I’m not now. I thought for sure Cory would convince either my cousin or his son to teach you. They swear they didn’t, so that leaves either Amanda, his partner-in-crime, or Matthew, his teacher.”

Clint grinned, suspecting Connor wanted confirmation. “Why do you care?”

“I have a case of rare Scotch riding on it and I’d rather not lose to that Sassenach, Matthew.”

Chuckling, Clint took a sip of his beer. “Hate to tell you, but you’ve lost.”

Connor stared at him. “Who taught you to use a sword?”

“The circus.” At Connor’s disbelieving look, Clint clarified, “Look, my brother and I ran away and joined the circus when he was fourteen and I was ten. I hated cleaning the animal cages and got fascinated by the archer and the swordsman. They liked me and started teaching me how to do what they did.”

“Nobody runs away and joins a circus.”

“Yeah, well, we did and survived.” He studied the older immortal, suspecting behind the bet lay a genuine desire to know what was going on with an old friend. “Look, if you’re just here to hear my life story, I’m not interested in telling it. There’s a Wikipedia page on me anyway.” He signaled the bartender, paid his tab, and rose to leave.

Connor grabbed his forearm, stopping his movement. “Cory was in a bad place a few years ago. My nephew convinced him to keep living, but if Cory did his usual thing of telling you what the Game is and went on his merry way, he’s going to crash again. He’s been a friend of mine for too many centuries for me not to worry about him.”

Hearing genuine concern, Clint sat back down. “He tried doing his usual thing. Too many people said no, and he didn’t want to hear about how Robin Hood didn’t teach Hawkeye.”

Connor stared at him, then smiled, relieved. “Good.”

“Why?” Clint wondered.

“Because it means Cory’s pulled his head out of his ass,” Connor said flatly, “and started to give a damn again about someone other than himself.”

“And you like Cory better when he’s a thief?”

“When he’s putting his money and time towards people to make a difference in their lives, no matter how big,” Connor corrected. “He’s made me laugh and swear I’ll kill him the next time I see him, but the next time I see him–”

“You remember he made you laugh, so you don’t kill him,” Clint finished. “Yeah, that’s Cory. He was looking good the last time I saw him and talking about harassing a few friends in Paris.”

Connor’s smile widened. “Thank you. That means my nephew will harass him back.”

“I thought immortals can’t have children.”

“Do you not count adopted children as real children? Or friends as family?” The dry, cutting tone Connor used was as sharp as steel.

“Considering what family I’ve had since I was ten has been largely the family I’ve chosen to make, I’m the last person to discount families of choice, whether it’s by blood relation or not. Just wanted to be sure that was the kind of relationship you meant, given how complicated explaining that sort of thing can get.”

Connor’s expression softened. “My cousin was adopted into the same clan as I had been five decades after I was banished. We are rare among immortals that way; it is not often the same you find the same lineage.”

“And you like to remind him occasionally that you were first?”

Connor grinned. “It’s only proper.”

Clint barked a laugh. “Uh huh. Does he let you yank his chain?”

“Sometimes,” Connor agreed. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to your brother?”

“He’s dead,” Clint said flatly. “Don’t think if he was supposed to be one of us, he would’ve survived getting his head cut off by a sword-wielding Mafia boss.”

“No, he wouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He was an asshole who got jealous I got top billing when he was still cleaning the circus animals’ cages, even though I still also had to clean cages.”

Connor chuckled dryly. “Some people never see the work you’re doing on top of everything else, only that you’re doing something they aren’t.” He rose. “If you have questions that old thief won’t answer, come find me. Until then, watch your head, Hawkeye.”

“Thanks; you do the same.” He offered his hand to shake and found it gripped firmly, a ghost of a smile on Connor’s face, before Connor left.

Amused, Clint finished his beer and pulled out his phone to text Cory.

 _You didn’t tell me Connor MacLeod can be an asshole,_ he wrote.

 _That would’ve been cheating,_ came the reply. _You wouldn’t have believed me anyway._

Clint laughed, acknowledging that with a wry emoji. _He’s worried about you._ _Said he was going to get his nephew to harass you. You know who that is?_

_Yes, and it’s not a problem. Richie and I are good friends. Are you okay?_

_Just wasn’t expecting to get the third degree about you from someone who looks and acts like an undercover assassin._

_That’s Connor. Wait until you meet Duncan, his cousin. He’s the refined one._

_If it’s all the same, I’ll skip it. One MacLeod was plenty._

He got an amused emoji in reply and hastily added, _And no, that’s not an invitation for you to set it up._

 _You live to ruin my fun,_ Cory complained.

Clint didn’t dignify that with a reply, preferring instead to pocket his phone and head home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for being patient! I hope you enjoy this chapter. :-)

####  _Friday, March 16_

_Hey, can you do me a favor?_ _My friend, Emily Harris, needs a date for a party tomorrow night and I forgot I’d be in Paris. If you’re willing to do it, she can meet you at the Bahama Bar & Grill in Manhattan tonight at 6 pm and give you all the details you need. Her number is 555-555-555 – please let her know either way. Thanks!_

The text from Cory was timestamped 3 PM local time, which meant Cory had sent it at 11 pm Paris time. Clint had turned off his phone, since he had been in a training session with Natasha. Now it was nearly 5 pm. Getting to Manhattan from the Avengers Training Facility in Friday night rush hour by 6 pm would either require using a Quinjet or a ride from Iron Man, Falcon, or War Machine. Given it was not an emergency, Clint would not ask for those options, so he called the number Cory gave him instead.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Emily Harris?”

“Yes?” Her voice held no discernable accent but was filled with the wariness of someone who had answered a call from a number she had not recognized.

“I’m Clint Barton. Cory Raines gave me your number and asked me to see if I could help you out, but I’m not going to make it to Manhattan before 7 pm at the earliest. Would you mind too much if I was late?”

Emily chuckled warmly. “Well, considering Cory usually leaves me hanging with no warning, I can wait. I have long black hair, braided, and pale skin. I’m wearing a black leather jacket with a red blazer, and I’ll be waiting for you in the bar. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Two hours later, Clint made his way to the restaurant, which was in the base of one of the towering skyscrapers in Midtown Manhattan. The Caribbean-themed restaurant hummed with energy; the line to get inside spilled out the door, and a sign indicated they were only serving guests with reservations in the dining room. Clint felt another immortal as he approached the bar.

 _Please, whoever you are, be someone who isn’t interested in a fight tonight_ , Clint prayed.

As he searched the bar, he found both the source of the signal and the woman he planned to meet. Clint’s eyes widened as he realized she was immortal, stunningly beautiful, and held herself with the poise of a warrior woman. Across the crowded bar, their eyes met. Her lips curved, and she waved him over.

He threaded his way through the crowd to the empty bar stool next to her. “Hi, I’m Clint,” he said, offering his hand to shake. He noted the still-full glass of red wine before her, guessing she had been nursing it while she waited for him. She was a broad shouldered, full-figured woman. Under the red blazer, she wore a cream-colored knit shirt and black pants. Brown leather boots covered her feet. A gold Celtic knot necklace lay low on her neck. If she carried a sword, Clint couldn’t tell where she had hidden it; the tailoring of her clothes emphasized her assets. Clint didn’t doubt that had been a deliberate choice.

“I’m Emily.” Her grin grew wider. “Cory promised me he’d deliver a surprise, but you aren’t what I was expecting.”

“Glad I could help,” Clint said evenly. She had a heart-shaped face and the pale skin of someone of Celtic heritage. Despite looking somewhere in her thirties, Cory suspected she was much older. He would not ask how much older, though; he knew better than to ask that from any woman. After placing an order for a pint of draft ale and paying the bartender when the drink was delivered, Clint turned to Emily.

“What else did Cory volunteer me for?”

Emily chuckled. “That says you know him well. Well, I’m a weaver and textiles artist. Several museums showcase my work. I’m invited to a dinner tomorrow night; it’s a fundraiser for the Greater New York Art Showcase. I would rather not go alone, as one of the people I expect to be there has not taken a hint or a direct no. Peter Doucette fancies himself to be a patron of the arts, but I’ve heard rumors for years he likes to take young, vulnerable artists under his wing and pressures them into sex under the guise of ‘helping further their careers.’” Emily made a face. “I’m not that naïve.”

“Which makes you forbidden fruit and all that more of a challenge,” Clint noted sourly, sipping his beer. “Well, I do have a tux, and would be pleased to help you out, Emily. Where and when shall I pick you up, and where is this party?”

Emily gave him an address in the Bronx as her residence and told him that the party would be held in one of the multi-million-dollar luxury homes on Staten Island. “I hope you can talk art,” she told Clint. “The crowd at these parties can be condescending to anyone who doesn’t know.”

“When I was part of S.H.I.E.L.D., they made sure I knew the difference between cheap fakes and priceless art,” Clint assured her. “One of my assignments was to make sure a priceless painting was returned to the museum from which it had been stolen, along with several other objects. We had an art expert with us, but I didn’t trust him to run a game on us, switch out the real ones we were retrieving for fakes.” Clint grinned. “Turned out my hunch was right: he was part of the ring that had stolen them in the first place.”

Emily’s eyes widened. “You aren’t just a very talented archer.”

“No, ma’am. Just like I don’t think ‘Emily’ is your real name. You take a second too long to respond to it.”

She laughed softly at that. “No, it’s not, but that’s a conversation for another time. I’ve never been that good at subterfuge; direct action has always been more my forte. I assume because you’re an Avenger, you can’t give out your phone number?”

Clint grinned. “I can; any call gets verified before it goes to me. Don’t be alarmed if Julie, our AI, asks you to verify your identity before allowing you to leave a voicemail.” He then texted her his number.

Emily smiled, understanding, as her phone pinged with a notification. She pulled it out of her purse and forwarded the invitation details to him, saying, “The party is being held at the home of Denise McKensie; she’s the heiress to a snack food conglomerate. She’s a lovely person, which is why I’m willing to go to this. I can’t vouch for the rest of the guests.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not the first society party I’ve attended.” Clint flashed a smile. “So what do you do when you’re not making museum-quality art?”

“Play way too many video games,” Emily replied promptly. “One of my friends got me hooked on _World of Warcraft_ a few years ago.” She shook her head, her blue eyes full of mirth. “Richie lured me in with the art.” Emily studied Clint a moment. “If you hang around Cory long enough, he’ll introduce you to Richie Ryan; the two of them are best friends. Richie’s like Cory’s younger, more responsible brother.”

Clint chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind. Have you been in the city a long time?”

“Seven years,” she replied. “I was in Athens before that, but the government there has made it impossible for foreigners to live and work there.” She shook her head. “The world as a whole has become hostile to anyone it considers an outsider.”

“Given we’ve had aliens from other planets invade us, I’d hoped we’d get past that problem on the local scale,” Clint interjected, wanting to hear her opinion.

Emily grinned. “No, that would require more forward thinking than the petty, scheming politicians have the capacity to contemplate. I’ve wondered, though – what does Thor think of our planet?”

“Sometimes I get the impression we’re a more than few centuries behind Asgard in terms of technology, and what we’d call magic is what he’d call science,” Clint offered. “But he doesn’t seem to hold it against us. Asgard and Earth aren’t the only places he’s been in his long life, so he understands not everyone shares the same level of knowledge or customs.”

“And what did you think of discovering the world was bigger than Earth?” Emily leaned in, interested.

Clint smiled tightly. Not for the first time, he thought SHIELD should have not gone knocking on a door when they didn’t know what was on the other side. “That I didn’t have enough firepower in my quiver to take down a bunch of armored space whales.”

“I saw the videos of you shooting,” Emily told him. “I wondered who was brave and crazy enough to shoot arrows at something so alien and huge. I had to call Cory to ask if he’d put someone up to the task.”

Clint’s smile widened. “I can see that.”

“You don’t ever fear you’ll be outgunned?” Emily wondered now.

“Can’t let fear dominate what I do,” Clint replied simply. “Plus, those Chitauri couldn’t bank worth a damn.”

Emily returned his smile. “I suppose this is the part where you ask me questions so it’s not obvious that I picked you up tomorrow’s dinner with no prior warning.”

“Well, if that’s the way you want to play it, we can,” Clint offered. “Up to you. I’m willing to go with whatever you’re more comfortable with.”

Emily sipped her wine before she spoke again. “Denise knows I haven’t dated much. She thinks I have impossible standards, but the truth is: I don’t care much for most of the people who move in the luxury art circles. Money can’t cover a lack of class or a belief that money alone means you can stomp on anyone who doesn’t have it.”

“I grew up poor,” Clint offered. “When I was ten, my brother and I ran away and joined the circus. I hate pretentious snobs.”

Emily froze. “I thought that part of your story was, well, a story,” she said cautiously.

Clint barked a laugh. “No.” He sipped his beer before adding, “I joined the Army to escape the circus; S.H.I.E.L.D. recruited me a few years after I got out. But yeah, I learned to care for elephants and tigers, wield a sword, and perform trick shots with arrows when I was a kid.”

Emily blinked. “No wonder you shoot a bow as well as you do. You have the kind of muscle memory we used to instill in our best archers and swordsmen.”

“You sound like a woman who used to help with that sort of thing.”

She nodded before taking a sip of her wine. “Fifteen years ago, British historians dug up a grave that held a Celtic warrior queen. She was misidentified as a man for years until someone pointed out that a man of that stature would not have knitting needles in his grave goods.”

Clint eyed her. “You know her name, and no one will ever believe you.”

Emily nodded. “I was supposed to die with her. The gods had other plans for me.” She flashed a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes. After taking another sip of wine, she said, “The British Museum of Art has one of my oldest surviving pieces. I look at it sometimes and have to resist the urge to steal it back so I can burn it. It shouldn’t have survived.”

“Why?”

“Because it was meant for the dead. Someone desecrated a grave to get it.”

“I feel that way about seeing the list of Hawkeye merchandise people want me to approve sometimes,” Clint said, wanting to get her to smile. “Like: my face does not need to be popsicle.”

Emily studied him. “You don’t enjoy being a celebrity.”

Clint shook his head. “No. Especially after the way we had to torch S.H.I.E.L.D. and force HYDRA out of hiding. Some people still want the Avengers to pay for the damage we’ve done, and that’s a cost I can’t begin to tally. I helped save the world, but a lot of good people got hurt as part of the collateral damage.”

“You can’t be held responsible for that,” Emily argued. “And the next time the world needs saving, who will step up and take that responsibility? Not the politicians, that’s for certain.”

Clint nodded. “They’ll be the first to call us. And you’ll get me on a soapbox if we keep talking about this. What’s your favorite TV show?”

With a smile, Emily accepted the redirect. They spent the next hour getting to know each other better. Emily was a self-confessed TV addict, who loved that Netflix allowed her to just keep watching episodes while she worked on her art. She had definite opinions on pop culture, and came across as a well-read, well-informed woman unafraid to express herself.

After they parted ways, Clint headed back to the condo he kept in the city rather than drive back to the Avengers Facility. He took a moment to look up Emily Harris, textile artist, and found that her tapestries were not only one-of-a-kind works of art, but that she hadn’t been kidding about her work being in museums. Emily’s technique and patterns were distinctive. Digging a little further with the help of the Avengers Facility’s AI, Julie, Clint found probable works dating back at least nine centuries. That meant Emily was likely closer to being a thousand years old or older, with a Celtic background, and from a warrior tribe. Clint decided he liked her; whatever her true age and background was, she had adapted well to the modern life. Being a weaver on commission, with enough talent and clout to hobnob with the society elite, meant Emily was not someone who coasted through life, but worked hard for what she had. Satisfied by what he had found, he went to sleep.

⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞

Not for the first time, Clint was grateful that one of the perks of being an Avenger was that his formalwear was not limited to whatever he could grab as a rental, but that his closet contained three suits: one gray, one blue, and one black, all custom tailored to fit him. After checking with Emily to see what color she preferred, he went with the gray one. The gray suit, like the others, had been tailored to allow Clint to stash a pair of knives in special sheaths within the jacket. His sword, bow, quiver, and a set of spare clothing went into a duffel bag that he put in the trunk of his car. He then drove over to meet Emily; the drive took less than fifteen minutes. Her townhouse was a semi-detached brick building in the Bronx. An alley ran behind her building, leading to the carport. Per her directions, he parked next to the late-model silver Fiat 500 occupying the wide concrete space, then rang the doorbell on her back door.

Emily had chosen to wear full-length, A-line, dark blue gown with lace sleeves and a V-neckline. Her long hair was styled in a figure-eight bun, a crystal hair stick holding the bun in place. The dress should have looked plain, even ordinary, but it had been tailored to fit Emily and flattered her hourglass body. In deference to the spring evening chill, she had chosen a wool cape that looked both old and felt heavy to the touch. Much to Clint’s amusement, she wore knee-high dress boots under the formal gown, which was revealed when she lifted her skirt to get into his Dodge Charger. Clint assumed she had concealed her sword or at least a pair of knives somewhere on her person. Something about the look of determination on her face and the battle-ready confidence she projected made him certain that while she might not have worn her sword the previous night, she had it with her tonight.

Seeing the direction of his gaze, Emily grinned. “I’ve never liked high heels,” she admitted. “Every time I wear them, I wind up regretting it.”

“I can see that,” Clint allowed. “Hope you weren’t expecting a limo for this.”

Emily chuckled. “No. I was actually hoping you wouldn’t hire a driver. It means we can leave when we want to, and we might want to.”

“Why do you associate with these people if they aren’t people you want to waste breath on?” Clint wondered as he drove towards Staten Island. The trip from Emily’s townhouse to their destination would take forty-five minutes to an hour, depending on whether he took the toll road or the interstate. “And that makes me think if we’re a little late due to traffic, you aren’t going to mind.”

“No, I won’t, but I don’t want to be too late, either. If you want to take the toll road, it’s usually faster, and I’ll pay the fee. The guests at this party are the people who pay the thousands of dollars to buy what I make,” Emily said. “I’ve had decades where I was content to show my work in a local gallery, live off what I’ve invested, and keep my name and face out of the public eye. I can’t do that this century and expect to do more than scrape by.”

“You lost a lot of money in the last economic downturn,” Clint guessed.

“More than I thought I would, across two stock markets,” Emily agreed with a heavy sigh. “So, I went back to the loom, and targeted whom I knew would buy my work as wall tapestries and art.”

“Why weaving?” Clint wondered.

“Fine pottery doesn’t sell like it used to, and it keeps me from wanting to interfere in politics,” Emily said dryly. “I’ve seen enough wars to know someone is always maneuvering to wield the power of military might. I’ve also lost enough to realize it’s not enough to want to rally behind a single leader or a cause.”

“I’d argue sometimes it is,” Clint countered. He used the opportunity of a stoplight to glance at his passenger. “If you’d told me before I met Steve Rogers, I’d wield my bow and arrow against an alien army, I would’ve laughed at you.”

Emily acknowledged that with an incline of her head. “There are always exceptions,” she agreed, “and extraordinary circumstances in which exceptional people rise to the occasion. And from what I’ve read and heard, Captain Rogers is a rare kind of person.” She paused. “What did the Sokovia Accords mean to you, if you can tell me?”

“Meant they wanted us to sign something without giving us time to review or discuss it, and I didn’t have to read the fine print to know that alone was a red flag,” Clint said flatly. “I’m no lawyer, but I know enough to read whatever someone wants me to sign. I don’t agree with Steve on everything, but he was right that locking up Bucky Barnes and forcing the rest of us to sign something blindly wasn’t the answer. The punishment they dealt us was extreme and unwarranted in its severity given the crime we committed. There were people who saw the Avengers as a threat greater than any potential extraterrestrial enemy.”

“And they wanted to corral you and trot you out when it was convenient for them.” Emily shook her head. “Because that works out so well.”

“The kinds of threats we face aren’t the kinds of threats you send the FBI or Interpol out to deal with; we’re usually dealing with someone with extraordinary power of some kind. In time, those agencies could learn to deal with them, but I doubt they’re willing to use our methods to do it.”

“Laws to protect the innocent have their place, but not when you have an alien army raining destruction on Manhattan, or a robotic intelligence gone rogue, willing to lift an entire country into the air,” Emily agreed. She studied Clint a moment as they navigated the route to the party. “You’re not the man I expected, given the press I’ve seen about you.”

Clint barked a laugh. “And who were you expecting?”

“Someone rougher, less articulate.”

Clint grinned. “I have S.H.I.E.L.D. to thank for that; they insisted I learn to be better. Would you prefer the country hick from small town Iowa, who only can talk about drinking beer on Friday nights and football?”

Emily chuckled. “No.”

“My life feels like an open book,” Clint noted. “What should I know about you?”

“I’m not unarmed or unskilled,” she volunteered. “I don’t carry my sword everywhere, but I do believe in being prepared. Cory teases me that I was a warrior queen, but the closest I’ve come to being royalty was being a minor lady during the Middle Ages.”

“Why does he say that, then?”

“Because he grew up hearing stories of one,” Emily replied, amused. “The Romans were not prepared for the resistance of the Celtic tribes, many of whom were led by women, not men, and whose tribal members fought regardless of gender.”

“You were one of those tribal members,” Clint guessed. “And Cory pays you respect by calling you a warrior queen, and he’d be the first to make any deal to ensure you kept living.” He glanced at her. “So who besides the misogynistic creep will be at this party?”

Emily stared at him. “What gave me away?”

“Years of working with a former Russian spy and assassin,” Clint replied. “It’s not what you said but how you said it and what you didn’t say.”

Emily sighed. “If they show up, I’ll tell you. I’m hoping they won’t.”

Clint reached across the center console to grip her hand. “You got me, and if I need reinforcements, I can call them.”

“Appreciate it.” She was quiet a moment before she let a breath. “If you get me through this night, I’ll give you my real name and how to get a hold of me when you need someone older than Cory to talk to.”

Clint’s eyes widened. “I don’t need to be dared to do something, Emily. I’d do this for you because I like you. You’re smart, resourceful, and beautiful. That’s enough incentive for me.”

She glanced at him. “Your debt to Cory has nothing to do with this?”

“That was last night. Tonight’s more a you-and-me thing.”

Emily stared at him. “You are very much not the silent, doesn’t-talk-much Avenger I thought you were.”

“I can shut up if you’d prefer.”

Emily laughed. “No. I like the guy I’m getting to know. And thank you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor edits have been made to previous chapters.

The party turned out to be the typical high-society dinner party Clint remembered attending as part of his role as a S.H.I.E.L.D. spy and assassin, often working with and backing up Natasha. The names and faces were more important this time around, however, because he didn’t have a S.H.I.E.L.D. dossier warning him ahead of time who would be in attendance. The twist tonight was that the evening was a fundraiser featuring the works of the invited artists, and part of the proceeds would be donated to the Greater New York Art Showcase to benefit struggling artists. The cocktail hour would double as the time for the silent auction, and then the live auction would be held during dessert.

Denise McKensie, their host, looked like the stereotype of the aging heiress, but she projected a warm, down-to-earth sensibility that Clint liked instantly. The expansive front parlor of the mansion served as the cocktail room; blue-uniformed servers circulated appetizers and drinks. Denise had assembled a guest list full of the rich and powerful. He was not surprised to see a few politicians, celebrities, and Fortune 500 executives among the hundred guests at this dinner party and fundraiser.

Clint did what he presumed Emily wanted: he hovered close, listened attentively, acted the part of an infatuated but gentlemanly suitor, and deflected all interest in what he did for a living. He had found the rich lived in a bubble, even after the leaked HYDRA files; only the observant remembered what he looked like. After the tenth guest looked at Clint with barely a flicker of recognition, Emily murmured, “Did you get the power of invisibility somewhere? Nobody seems to recognize you here.”

Clint chuckled. “Everyone remembers Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, the Hulk, and Natasha Romanoff, especially after her Senate testimony. But the rest of us aren’t as memorable. Plus, I got in the habit of not being memorable from my years in S.H.I.E.L.D.; they needed me to be.”

“I see,” Emily said. “In that case, let me point out Peter Doucette. He’s the older man in the grey pinstripe suit in the west corner, talking to the young woman who is desperately trying to escape the conversation. He is an importer of fine and rare wines and liquor. His cousin owns the Doucette Winery, a historic vineyard north of Paris, which has consistently won international awards for their red wines.”

Clint looked to the west corner. He saw a heavy-set, square-shouldered Caucasian man with graying hair standing too close to petite Hispanic woman dressed in a blue-gray embroidered dress, who kept trying to back away. As Clint watched, he saw the woman brush off Peter’s hand from her shoulder, only for Peter to put it back. “Should we intervene?”

Emily hesitated. “He will only turn his focus to me if I go to him.”

Clint gripped her hand reassuringly. “Let me, then. Do you know who the young woman is?”

“Val Yáñez; she’s a jewelry artist who uses Mayan wire casting techniques.” She smiled, relieved. “Be careful.”

He studied his target a moment longer and made his move. He took a few minutes, but he wanted to make sure he looked like his move towards Peter was not obvious.

“I said no,” Val hissed at Peter in French. “Will you let me be?”

“You are being foolish. You could benefit from a patron,” Peter insisted in the same language.

Clint was multilingual thanks to his years in the circus and S.H.I.E.L.D. training; besides English, he was fluent in French, Italian, Portuguese, Spanish, Arabic, Russian, German, and American Sign Language. He could tell Peter thought speaking in French would mean no one would listen in.

“I don’t need a patron like you,” Val spat. She had a slight Spanish accent on her French, betraying her native language. “You would convince me all my work should go to your other lover for gifts. You’d ruin me for your fun.” She brushed her long black hair back over her ear, revealing she had worn a long silver wirework earring, and shoved Peter’s hand off her shoulder again. She had a large, oval face with deep-set eyes, a wide-flared nose, and a wide mouth; Clint surmised, from his experience in Guatemala, that she had Mayan heritage.

“Now, now, you mustn’t listen to vicious gossip like that,” Peter tried. “I wouldn’t treat you like that.”

Val snorted. “Too many stories over too many years tell me otherwise. And will you get your hands off me? I said no, and that means no now, tomorrow, and until I die.”

Clint raised an eyebrow and cut in. “Val! There you are,” he said, as if she had wandered off. “I lost you in the crowd. Weren’t you saying you wanted to meet Emily Harris?”

Val was no fool. “I did, thank you,” she said, switching languages easily, and reached for his arm. He led her over to Emily, feeling Peter stare daggers at them until the crowd surged and covered his line of sight.

Val shook hands with Emily. “Pleased to meet you,” she said easily. Turning to Clint, she said, “I always wondered if superheroes only saved the day when the threats were too big for mortals. Good to know you could prove my theory wrong, Hawkeye.”

“The name is Clint Barton. I’m only Hawkeye when I’m in uniform. What is Peter’s fascination with you?”

“Same one he has for every woman.” Val smiled bitterly. “I just don’t believe he’s God’s gift to anyone. More like the Devil’s. I appreciate the rescue, but I’ve had enough of this party. I’ll get a cab home.”

Worried, Emily interjected, “Do you want us to escort you out?”

Val shook her head. “I’ll be okay.” She waved off any further help and walked away.

Frowning, Clint looked at Emily. “Do you believe her?”

“No, but,” Emily sighed, “having seen this sort of thing before, I suspect you’ve done all the help she’s willing to take.”

Clint grimaced. He agreed with Emily’s assessment but made a mental note to follow up with Val, aware his sense of honor would not be satisfied unless he did so.

“Shall we head to dinner?” Emily nodded to where Denise stood, signaling the end of the cocktail hour.

As high-society dinners went, Clint thought this one had one advantage over the others he had attended: he wasn’t here to kill or kidnap anyone. The grand dining room had been set up with a small head table and larger, rectangular tables, spaced out just enough to allow the servers room to get to the middle of the room and between the tables. Clint found himself seated between a tech startup billionaire, Luther Rivas, and a former fashion model turned businesswoman, Yvonne Buenrostro. Clint quickly determined Luther was more interested in drinking than conversation, and suspected Luther was merely here because someone convinced him it would look good if he showed up. Yvonne ignored both Luther and Clint in favor of trying to convince the man on her right to invest in her latest enterprise. Amused by what he was hearing, Clint turned his attention to the two people who flanked Emily – a pharmaceutical executive named James King and another man named Andrew Manning. Andrew had the look of a man who’d been born into wealth and privilege and would never worry about either the rest of his life.

James appeared to be fascinated by Emily’s work and was asking her about it with genuine interest. Clint listened for a moment before Andrew snagged his attention.

“You’re one of those Avengers, aren’t you?” Derision coated Andrew’s words.

“And?” Clint returned evenly, not liking Andrew’s tone.

“Do you expect us to really believe an alien army came from outer space? And that some errant AI destroyed Sokovia? It’s all Hollywood smoke and mirrors, designed to get us to buy into global peace and climate change.”

Clint forced himself to take a breath before he answered. “Believe what you want,” he returned. “I’m not going to sit here and get into an argument about what I’ve been through to save this planet.”

Andrew stared at him. He looked like a rich kid of Instagram, polished in a custom tux that Clint had no doubt cost thousands of dollars, but with no sense of reality outside of his multimillion-dollar bubble. “That was all real?” he asked, astonished. “That wasn’t a faked movie?”

“What have you been smoking?” Yvonne interjected before Clint could respond. “For God’s sake, Andrew, where have you been? I can’t believe you would even ask that.” She rolled her eyes and dismissed him before resuming her conversation with the gentleman on her right.

Clint watched as Andrew, who clearly had been hoping to score points with Yvonne, felt the slap of her dismissal. He then tried to salvage his standing by asking Emily a question.

“I’m sorry, did you speak?” Emily asked. “I don’t talk to idiots.”

Clint didn’t hide a smile. “Might want to start watching something other than curated YouTube lists,” he suggested. “Some of those will lead you to places you might not want to go down.”

“Damn straight,” James agreed. “My son almost got recruited by some terrorist group. If I hadn’t asked him why the hell he wanted to go to the middle of a jungle for no good reason, he would have.” James shook his head. “Next thing I know, he wants me to tell people to stop drinking water because he didn’t understand what dihydrogen monoxide was.”

For the rest of dinner, Andrew avoided eye contact with everyone, and vanished before dessert.

“Wondered how long he was going to last,” Emily noted.

As dessert was served, Clint waited with Emily as the auction was held. Besides the fifteen works featured during the silent auction, thirty more works were up for auction, including pottery, mixed media, textiles, sculptures, jewelry, and paintings. Clint was fascinated by the intricate wire and bead work displayed on the sapphire-and-diamond jewelry set. Seeing his interest, Emily told him, “That’s Val’s work. She’s part Mayan; her mother is American.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Clint agreed. “I haven’t seen work like that since I was in Guatemala. Your tapestry is stunning.” Emily had done a tapestry that featured a beautiful woman standing at a garden gate, looking as though she was deciding whether to open the gate to the world beyond or stay in the lush, green forest. “It looks like she’s more scared of staying than going.”

Emily chuckled. “I was thinking of someone when I designed it.”

“How do you get the pattern so precise?”

“I used to plan it by hand, but my last husband was a computer programmer. He convinced me I should use computers to plan my art. It’s completely changed how much detail I’m willing to include.”

Clint whistled softly. “I can believe that.”

The live auction bidding was fierce and coordinated by a professional auctioneer, hired for this event. The auctioneer reviewed the rules, reminding everyone that all sales were final, all artwork needed to be picked up and paid for tonight, and that the auction house would take credit cards. Clint had rarely attended a live auction, and was grateful that Emily warned him, “Don’t make any eye contact with the auctioneer or any of his spotters; they will take that as a bid. If you want to watch the crowd, we can do it from the back corner.”

Clint was not surprised to see Peter Doucette bid on Val’s work, but was relieved to see that his bid was outbid by someone else. He was, however, shocked at the closing price at which Emily’s work sold for. Valued at $1,200, it had sold for three times that number.

Emily let go of the breath she was holding when she saw who won the bid. Peter had tried to buy it, but again, had been outbid. Clint saw that Peter won one piece, but from the look on Peter’s face, he didn’t look as happy as he would have been.

“Whose work did Peter win?”

“That’s Rob Rosenthal’s work. He’s not here tonight; he never attends these things. Peter keeps buying his stuff, hoping to win a private audience.”

Clint glanced at Emily. “You think hell would freeze over first.”

Emily grinned. “Rob has no need of a patron. He was a successful child actor who managed to avoid the child actor trap, save his money, keep his sanity, and now paints because he can.”

“And he’s a friend.”

Nodding, Emily said, “We struck up a conversation on the subway three years ago and have been friends ever since.”

The auction took another half hour to conclude. Emily had to sign over her piece to the winning bidder, but that also didn’t take as long as Clint thought it might. Still, Clint estimated it would be close to 1 AM by the time he parked at Emily’s. They had been at the dinner party and fundraiser for five hours.

Emily was quiet on the drive back to her place. Clint parked his car down the street, then walked her to her townhouse, over her objections.

“Let me be a gentleman, please,” he insisted. “Parting from your work must feel like giving away one of your kids.”

Emily chuckled. “How did you guess?”

“My ex-wife wanted kids, so we found a way,” Clint said simply. “It hurts to be away from them, but I don’t want to play my ex’s games.”

Emily nodded in understanding. “I’m sorry. I hope you two work it out, but having raised children a few times – it was easier to give away my kids than my art. I knew I’d see my kids again; I won’t see my art again. At least this time, though, they didn’t ask me to donate the art and not get a commission. That makes losing the work worth it, especially since I get a third and the charity gets two-thirds, minus the auction house’s fees.” She stopped at her townhouse’s door and pulled out a business card from her purse and handed it to Clint.

“Thanks for tonight.” She kissed his cheek. “That is my official way-to-reach me card. As for my name – it’s Ceirdwyn. I was a member of an Iceni tribe who followed the great queen, Boudicca, and I died fighting the Roman invasion.”

“For those of us who dropped out of school when they were ten, that would be when?”

She half-smiled. “AD 60 – and yes, I’m one of the oldest of us still alive.”

Clint’s eyes widened. He did the math in his head and realized the woman who looked as though she was in her late thirties was the oldest immortal he had met yet. “How come you don’t have people clamoring for you the way I hear they go for the Highlanders?”

“No one expects a woman to live this long, for one, and for another, I don’t advertise I can fight. One of my names is Flora MacDonald, which is the name most associated with a powerful, warrior female immortal. I was Flora back in 1764, so if anyone’s hunting me, they only think I’m two hundred and fifty-five years old. Even before then, I got in the habit of changing my name, unlike the younger MacLeod, who’s too proud to stop being Duncan MacLeod, the Highlander.” She shrugged. “I’ve seen a lot over the centuries, fought in multiple wars and skirmishes, and I keep telling myself I should stop, but… If you ever need someone to back you up, let me know.” She flashed him a rueful smile. “Or to talk about why being among the first to run towards a fight is reckless, suicidal, and oh so worth it when you believe the cause is just.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He hugged her and then kissed her cheek, understanding they had sparked as friends, nothing more. “If you need a date again, or want to have a friend, you know how to reach me.”

“Thanks again, Clint. And just because I suspect you’ll wonder – the person I was hoping wouldn’t show up, didn’t.”

“Appreciate you telling me. Are they one of us and are they after you?”

She smiled ruefully. “Yes.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“No.” She took a breath. “And I’m going to take a page out of an old book: until he comes for me, I’m not going to worry about it anymore.” She turned, unlocked the door to her townhouse, and then stepped inside, shutting the door behind herself.

Clint didn’t believe for one instant Ceirdwyn would stop worrying, but he would not push a woman who’d lived for nearly two millennia. She’d survived longer than any non-Asgardian woman he knew, and that counted for something. Yet he couldn’t shake the sense that trouble was at her door. He could only hope she contacted him for help in time.


	4. Chapter 4

#### Monday, March 19

At seven-thirty AM on Monday, Ceirdwyn unlocked the door and stepped into her work studio, which was in a five-story industrial building, marketed specifically as art studio space. A central lobby opened to the various tenant spaces and was set up to showcase the artists in residence. That meant anyone coming in had to go through the lobby, which was open during normal business hours. The elevator also was time-and-keycard-controlled, which Ceirdwyn appreciated. Ceirdwyn stepped into the lobby and swiped her card for the elevator, taking it up to the fifth floor. She had the east corner of the fifth floor and currently had the floor to herself, since the other tenant had moved out some months prior and the space had yet to be rented.   

She keyed in the code that reset the security alarm to ‘people working inside’ and hung her coat in the closet by the door, pulling out the sword she had concealed within the hip-length leather coat. A large work counter with storage shelves and drawers ran across half the width of the space. Ceirdwyn set her sword on the hooks she had installed on the underside of the counter, closest to the open edge. She then walked past the desk she had set up for her assistant, Mark Velasquez, to the desk opposite it. She dropped her purse into the bottom drawer of her desk.

The studio was about a thousand square feet. She had worked with the landlord to include a private bathroom and a kitchenette at the rear of the space. In the center of the space sat the digital loom that enabled her to do detail work. The loom was manually operated; though she could afford to have her work mass-machined, she preferred the rhythm of operating the machine, passing the spindle from one side to the other. The digitization simplified the often-finicky work of ensuring which thread color went where, since the computer controlled the pattern and thread choice. She didn’t always use the digital loom, so she had stocked the studio with looms of varying sizes and types, some of which were freestanding, others on tables, while still others were small enough to be held. Habit had her counting which looms were in active production; she had six, which made her let go of the breath she was holding. It was irrational to think someone might steal her work, but it had happened, and she didn’t take for granted her work space was secure. Aware that the loom work was repetitive, she had furnished the space with comfortable, adjustable-height, rolling stools and a stereo speaker system that piped the sound from the computer-controlled big-screen TV she had installed on the wall that she and her assistant faced when working on the looms. Windows on either side of the TV let in light; she took a moment to angle the blinds so they didn’t cast too much light on any in-progress work.

Her assistant, Mark Velasquez, came hurrying in forty-five minutes after she had opened the studio. He was a thirty-year-old former model who had been looking for a job where his striking Hispanic looks wouldn’t matter. Ceirdwyn had wanted an assistant interested in learning why she picked the patterns she did, how she did them, who could pay attention to details, and who wouldn’t be fazed by rich people, demanding customers, and immortality. Mark fit the bill; he had been working for Ceirdwyn for five years. His assistance meant she could have multiple works in progress and keep to the schedule she had set for herself.

“Sorry I’m late,” he called back to her as he made his way to the kitchenette, where she had brewed a pot of coffee. “The bagel shop was a zoo, but I brought you the kind you like.”

Ceirdwyn smiled as he presented her with the bag holding her bagel. “You are a treasure, Mark.”

He pulled a bagel out of the second bag he carried and ate it. “How was the fundraiser Saturday night?”

“Peter was there, but he didn’t win anything of mine.”

Mark high-fived her. “Good. Who outbid him?”

“James King, the head of King Pharmaceuticals. It sold for $3600.”

“Nice,” Mark said appreciatively. “Did Cory stand you up?”

“Not exactly. He sent me a stand-in.” Ceirdwyn smiled, aware her assistant had a crush. “He got Hawkeye to do him a favor, just to see if I would mind having him as a substitute date.”

Mark stared at her, stunned. “Please tell me you didn’t turn that gorgeous man down, and you have a photo of him in a tux.”

Ceirdwyn grinned and pulled out her phone. She’d taken advantage of Clint’s fascination with the bidding to snap the photo, but it had caught him looking intently. She showed that photo to Mark now, who sighed dreamily.

“He looks fine. Wait – how does Cory get an Avenger to do him a favor?”

“Simple: he did Clint a favor.”

“He’s ‘Clint’?” Mark finished his bagel. “Does that mean I might get to meet him?”

“You might, but not for the reasons you’re hoping. You’re such a hopeless romantic, Mark. I’m perfectly fine without a man in my life.” She finished her bagel, washing it down with coffee, before washing her hands in the kitchenette’s sink.

“Yes, but when’s the last time you were with someone?”

“We aren’t talking about Toby this morning. He was a mistake, and I shouldn’t have assumed he’d handle the loss of my wealth with any sort of grace or understanding.”

Mark looked at her, belatedly remembering how that failed relationship had been part of the impetus for Ceirdwyn to change professions, locations, and names. “Right. Since the digital loom is free, did you want to discuss what project you want to do next on it?”

⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞

_Clint Barton prided himself on being a master archer, but watching Cory Raines draw and shoot a traditionally made, 100-pound self-yew bow, with blistering ease, made his back and shoulders ache. Security protocols meant they were practicing archery in a deserted park north of the city rather than at the Avengers Training Facility as Clint had hoped. The flip side of that was that only Natasha and Steve were watching on the sidelines, seated in the folding chairs they’d brought specifically for the purpose. It was a crisp February day, with the temperature hovering at just above freezing. The Avengers had brought a portable tent heater and blankets to offset the cold; Clint wore his winter uniform. Cory wore a heavy gray wool coat, a thick cream-colored turtleneck sweater, black jeans, and knee-high boots. He shot each arrow without appearing to allow for the thickness of his gloves._

_Watching Cory shoot the war bow, on top of the other archery they had done that morning, solidified Clint’s belief that the older immortal was not lying when he said he was the original Robin Hood._

_Cory glanced over at Clint, grinning, as his quiver ran empty. “Believe me now?”_

_“What, like I doubted you when you said you were Robin Hood?” Clint scoffed._

_Cory looked at him disbelievingly. “Most people do.”_

_“Most people don’t discover they’re immortal, either.”_

_Cory barked a laugh at that truth. “Fair enough.”_

_“Want to give it a try?”_

_“Hell, yeah,” Clint said. He took the deceptively simple weapon in his hand and tested the draw weight, surprised at how much arm strength it took to pull it back._

_“Not like that,” Cory corrected. “You’ll kill yourself that way. Who the hell taught you to shoot?”_

_“The circus.”_

_“Well, you’d shoot a hell of lot better if you stood right,” Cory suggested. “Remember, this was designed to be shot rapidly and accurately.”_

_Clint stared at him a long moment. “Okay, so tell me what I’m doing wrong, because this isn’t anything like I’ve shot before. I usually use a crossbow, and this feels way different.”_

_“Go retrieve the arrows I’ve shot, and I’ll show you,” Cory bargained._

_Wanting to learn what the seven-hundred-year-old archer could teach him, Clint started downrange, then stopped. “You still have the bow, and I don’t trust you not to shoot me with an arrow you’ve hidden in that jacket of yours.”_

_Caught, Cory tried, “Would I do that to you?”_

_Clint favored him with a look that said volumes._

_“Damn, where did you learn that?” Cory wondered._

_“Natasha.”_

_“Remind me not to piss her off, then.”_

_Clint barked a laugh._

_As they walked down to retrieve the arrows, Clint asked, “How long before you think someone immortal is going to come after me?”_

_“Connor MacLeod will likely find you, not for your head, but to figure out if you’ve been trained, and to offer friendship,” Cory told him. “He’s powerful enough to know who all the immortals in New York City are. Don’t get on his bad side and you’ll be fine. As for the headhunters–” Cory shrugged. “Shit like that goes in waves. Some years, it’s felt like no one’s interested.”_

_Clint nodded. “But someone will notice eventually.”_

_Cory patted his shoulder. “You’ll be fine,” he assured him. “You know what to do.”_

_From his seat at the edge of the field, Steve turned to Natasha. “You’ve been studiously quiet, watching Cory with Clint,” he noted._

_“He intrigues me,” Natasha admitted. “He’s done his job: taught Clint how to be immortal.”_

_“But?” Steve prompted._

_“He cares, more than he’s willing to admit,” Natasha noted. “And he’s damn good with a longbow, enough that if he wasn’t Robin Hood, he’s spinning a hell of a tale.”_

_“You don’t think he’s lying.”_

_Natasha blew out a breath. “No.” She met Steve’s gaze. “That means Clint has enemies he hasn’t met yet and we don’t know if they’re coming for him.”_

_Grimly, Steve nodded agreement. “Or if they’re coming for Cory. Either way, they’d be a target.” He considered that a moment. “We can’t be looking at shadows and seeing schemes where there are none. Do you think anyone else knows about Clint?”_

_“Clint said he can tell when another immortal is around, so I would imagine if he’s been in the city…”_

_“Any immortal who crossed his path probably knows.” Worry for Clint’s safety showed on Steve’s face. “But if they haven’t challenged him, then maybe we’re just borrowing trouble.”_

_Natasha shrugged. “Maybe.” She didn’t look convinced._

Memory of that conversation and that cold February day a month prior flashed through Natasha’s mind as she studied her best friend. He looked troubled, as if bothered by something, and Natasha’s first thought was that it involved Cory or immortal business or both. “Weekend not go well?”

“Cory asked me to meet a friend of his for dinner on Friday night, which led to me going to a high society auction on Saturday on Staten Island,” Clint told her as he finished tying the laces on his shoes to prepare for the training they planned to do. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t step onto the training mat with sneakers on, but he wasn’t keen on discovering if getting zapped with Natasha’s new Widow Bites would cause him to get glued to the mat. “Emily’s a weaver, who makes stunning tapestries. The one she provided for the auction was so vivid, like all it would take would be a little bit of magic and the woman would step out of it.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow as she waited for Clint to get into position. Clint had volunteered to be her guinea pig for this test, since the electrocution would not kill him permanently. Still, he was not looking forward to the exercise.

“I take it you two didn’t hit it off.”

Clint shook his head. “Not romantically, but I wasn’t interested.”

“Not interested?” Natasha stung him, and Clint winced at the pain.

“Not interested. Emily’s gorgeous, but we clicked as friends, nothing more.”

Natasha gave him a look that doubted his statement. She stung his right arm.

“Nat, I’m serious. I like her, but I’m not looking for anyone. I’m still dealing with being divorced. Give me a few more months at least. Besides, Emily’s a lot older and I can’t begin to imagine what someone with her history and skill would want with a guy like me.”

“She’s like Cory and you?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised to find out she taught Cory’s teacher; she said Cory called her his warrior queen.”

Intrigued, Natasha noted, “That’s telling, if he’s calling her that.” She stung Clint again, this time in his stomach.

Clint swore vehemently. “Damn it, Nat, that last bite hurt a hell of lot more than it should have. What setting is that at?”

“Medium.” Seeing the lightning continuing to dance over Clint’s torso, showing his immortal healing at work, Natasha frowned and checked the power setting. “It says ‘Medium,’ but you’ve tested these before.”

“Yeah, back when we were afraid to kill me,” Clint muttered. “Do you have your old ones?” He took a breath and mentally prepared himself for a long session. At their lowest setting and shortest application time, Natasha’s Widow Bites stunned and temporarily incapacitated; longer application time or switching to the highest setting would kill. The medium setting was supposed to be a compromise between those two extremes. Tony had given Natasha a new set; she had been hesitant to test them, unwilling to accidentally kill anyone, until after he had assured her that he hadn’t over-improved them.

“Hang on,” Natasha said, and went back to her locker. A few minutes later, she tried her older ones on Clint and frowned at the difference that resulted. “Tony must think my next targets are going to be hard to kill.”

“Well, you’ll need to ask him for something in between, or only use the new ones when you’re up against an immortal or something worse than the Chitauri.”

Natasha considered that thought and slipped on the newer Widow’s Bite on her right wrist. “In that case, in the interest of science, let’s see what the last setting feels like.”

“There is no ‘us’ in that,” Clint managed as he died of electrocution.

Sam, who had not heard their conversation, stepped into the training room in time to see Clint fall to the ground, spasming in death. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.

Too late, Natasha realized her mistake. “Don’t touch him,” she ordered. “He’ll be fine.”

“The hell he’s fine,” Sam snapped, moving to check Clint’s pulse like the trained pararescue medic he was. Finding no pulse, he went to start CPR, only to hear the distinct click of a safety disengaging. He looked up to see Natasha aiming a handgun at him.

“Let him be. He’ll be fine,” Natasha told Sam coldly.

Disbelieving, Sam stood and backed away from Clint’s body. “Natasha, I thought we were friends. What did you do to Clint?”

“Nothing he won’t recover from.”

Clint sat up seconds later, gasping as breath and blood returned to his body. He stood slowly, feeling the ache that told him his heart had stopped, and then realized Sam was staring at him. “Ah, fuck. Sorry, Sam.”

“The fuck? That’s all you have to say?”

“Explanations will have to wait until we’re in a more secure area.” Clint looked at Natasha. “You get the data you needed?”

She nodded. “Go. I’ll get Steve and Wanda. Meet you in Conference Room 2.”

Sam turned to Clint, who just shook his head. “I’ll tell you when we get to the conference room.”

Still looking dubious and concerned, Sam followed Clint out of the training room and up to the second level, where the conference room was. Conference Room 2 held twelve people comfortably, unlike the bigger conference room on the ground floor, which could hold forty, or the smallest, which was supposed to hold six but realistically only fit four and was closer to the front door.

Wanda looked at Clint when he walked in and offered him a rueful smile. In his mind, he heard her say, “He will not be happy you held this secret.” She wore in her usual red tank top-and-black yoga pants outfit; her wrists were still taped with athletic tape, which she had used to help prevent strain.

Steve was dressed in sweatpants and an Army t-shirt; both were stained with sweat. He carried his shield in with him. Clint surmised he had been helping Wanda practice her aim. Natasha followed in behind him and shut the door.

“Julie, initiate Avengers Confidential Level 1,” Steve told the facility’s AI as he took the seat at the head of the table. “Authorization Delta 4 Charlie 7 Rogers.”

“Avengers Confidential Level 1 initiated. Please remember to end protocol when finished. Thank you, Captain Rogers.” The AI went silent.

Sam turned to Clint, who had taken the seat on Steve’s right; Sam sat across from him. Natasha sat on Steve’s left; Wanda sat next to her. “What the hell happened down there? You were dead – you had no pulse. Did you get a dose of supersoldier serum or what?”

“I was dead,” Clint said evenly. “It just didn’t stick. Natasha wanted to know the strength of the new Widow Bites Stark sent her.”

Sam stared at him, then looked at his teammates. His eyes narrowed as he correctly surmised that they knew something he didn’t. “How the hell did you get back up?”

Clint took a deep breath. “No, I didn’t get a dose of supersoldier serum. I was born with the power of immortality. It’s not something you know until you die the first time. From that point on, I can do this,” he pulled out a knife and sliced his right hand, palm up so Sam could see the cut. Tiny bolts of blue lightning stitched up the cut faster than Sam could do more than register the wound and reach automatically for the small medic kit he kept on his belt.

In shock, Sam touched Clint’s palm, feeling smooth, unscarred skin. “I saw you cut yourself, saw the blood, but it’s like you never did anything. How did you figure this out?”

“Remember how I got kidnapped and was missing over Christmas?”

Sam nodded.

“Well, turns out what I thought was me just getting concussed was me actually dying. My kidnapper killed me. A few weeks after that, the owner of the house came to check out the property. He rescued me from my kidnapper. His name is Cory Raines, and he’s the one who told me about what I can do now. I can heal from anything except complete decapitation. My head comes off, I’m dead permanently. Any other kind of death, I’ll recover from. I’m told being burned at the stake tends to make you insane, but that’s understandable. The traditional weapon of choice for permanent death is a sword.”

Sam stared at him before slowly shaking his head. “Man. Just when I thought I was out of being able to be surprised. Is this Cory immortal as well?”

Clint nodded. “And before you think it’s a super cool thing, my kind of immortality comes with a price tag. That price tag is the Game, wherein another immortal can gain the knowledge, skills, and experience of other immortals provided they’re willing to kill them, preferably with a sword or other sharp-bladed instrument. The knowledge transfer is called the Quickening; it’s also what we call the little blue lightning that heals us.”

Sam’s eyes grew wide.

“What Clint hasn’t said,” Wanda broke in, “is that this Game has been happening for centuries. Nobody has won it yet, though there are few who have come close. If someone does win it, that means a genocide of all who are immortal.”

Sam looked at Steve. “And we’re supposed to do something about that?”

Steve shook his head. “Not unless we’re asked or it becomes necessary,” he replied, his voice heavy with resignation. “The Game is a fight to the death. It’s not sanctioned by any government as far as I’ve been able to find.”

Sam then turned to Clint. “Any chance you could renegotiate or, I don’t know, refuse to fight?”

“Sure. It just means you’re delaying the inevitable, whether from that immortal or from someone else. Another immortal hounded Cory for several years, sending him minions in hopes of wearing him down and then catching him off guard. Cory tried everything he knew – letting a friend fight for him, ignoring the minion, staying on holy ground, and running away – and still Evan Solli continued his fight.”

Sam blinked. “That was what that whole thing at that mansion was about? Not just a cache of Vulture’s weapons?”

Steve nodded. “Evan wanted to use them to eliminate us, so that he could win the Game and rule the world.”

Taken aback, Sam demanded, “What do you mean, ‘rule the world’?”

“Legend has it that the winner of the Game will have enough power, skills, and knowledge to do exactly that,” Clint said heavily. “And that someday, a powerful urge to complete the Game will come over all the immortals and they will converge on a single battlefield to fight to the last. That’s the Gathering. A Highlander named Connor MacLeod back won the closest thing we’ve had to one back in 1983. Connor won against an immortal named the Kurgan, who managed to survive a near-fatal decapitation and who killed over a thousand other immortals to get to Connor.” Clint paused. “Taking a Quickening feels like you’ve just connected yourself to a Stark AI and set the download speed to the speed of thought, and you have to remember who you are lest the person you just won against takes you over.”

Sam stared at Clint. “That’s…that’s horrifying.” His gaze sharpened. “You’ve done it.”

“Evan Solli wanted us dead. I wanted to know what he knew.” Clint kept his tone flat, certain Sam wouldn’t judge him for being a trained assassin, but half-afraid this was one case where he would.

Natasha glanced at Clint, then at Sam, who still looked distressed. “What happened to asking?”

“Solli wouldn’t have told us,” Clint stated. “He would’ve just killed us, and anyone who stood in his way.”

“Him I get, but the Kurgan – immortals can’t be that common that a thousand people gone would not get noticed.”

“I don’t know all the details,” Clint replied, “but what Cory told me was that we’re not rare, but we’re not common either. Most of us don’t advertise what we are.”

“Right, but what kind of knowledge are we talking about?”

“Think about it,” Natasha urged Sam. “Cory told us he was over seven hundred years old, but that he wasn’t the oldest among his kind, that there were others who were several centuries old. What kind of knowledge would someone that old have? Cory remembers when knights were common.”

“Fuck, that means the breadth of knowledge contained in one person, multiplied across a thousand…” He looked at Clint. “You’d have the gamut of human knowledge, enough to either topple governments or make the world better.”

“Or to decide fuck this shit, I’m going to pass out the popcorn and watch everyone else drive themselves crazy trying to play the Game,” Clint noted. “Cory stays out of it as best as he can, preferring to figure out how he can finance his next charitable cause. He was Robin Hood, and it amuses him greatly to know he taught me.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “The way you say that tells me there are traditions and rules.”

Clint nodded. “Whoever finds you and tells you about immortality generally is the one to teach you how to survive as an immortal. Cory’s more likely to tell someone ‘welcome to the club and good luck keeping your head’ than he is to teach someone. He made an exception to me because I’m a fellow archer.”

“He made an exception because you’re Hawkeye?” Sam asked incredulously.

Clint shrugged. “Basically.” He grinned. “For which I’m grateful. Not sure I’d have liked his first choice.”

“Connor?” Steve asked, then at Clint’s nod, shook his head. “Connor tends to piss people off as a ‘getting to know you’ move.”

“You know him?” Natasha asked, surprised.

“We’ve met. After the Battle of Manhattan, he found me. Approached me when I was at the Museum of Art, sketching, and introduced himself as an antique dealer with a shop on Hudson Street. He wanted to know if I was the same man he remembered from World War II. He and his cousin were fighting in one of the units I visited as part of the USO Tour, so we didn’t meet then. He seemed perturbed that I wasn’t quite what he was expecting.” Steve paused. “Given what I know now, I suspect he thought I might be immortal of the kind he and Clint are. At the time, I thought his questions were odd but dismissed him as one more odd thing in a world that I was still trying to get used to. He counted on me not knowing that medical science hadn’t advanced to extend ordinary human lifespans to be as long as mine; I didn’t question him when he said he was in the war.”

“But you’re not immortal,” Sam concluded. “Are you?”

Steve shook his head. “I just age slower and heal faster thanks to the super soldier serum, but nobody knows how long that will last.”

Sam took a deep breath before looking at Wanda. “Did you tell them I wouldn’t take this well?”

“I had nothing to do with Clint’s decision to withhold this information from you,” Wanda said sharply, annoyed by the assumption she would. “That was his choice.”

“If it helps, I wanted to wait until we both in the same room,” Clint defended himself. “And I’ve only known about what I am since January. I’ve been spending a lot of time with Cory, trying to make sure I know what he knows before he left for Paris. Steve, Natasha, and Wanda know because they responded to my request to help Cory.”

Mollified by that response, Sam sat back in his chair. “What does that mean in terms of triage? You know it’s going to look weird if you get hurt and I do nothing.”

“The triage is covering for me so other people don’t freak out and I have time to get away. I’m not Steve or Bucky. You put me in a hospital and I’m likely to have healed completely before then,” Clint told him. “I can tell who is immortal and who isn’t. I get a warning in my head, like this insistent bell of approaching danger, when another immortal is close. The more Quickenings I take, the stronger and clearer that sense becomes.”

“Can you tell who’s older and stronger?” Natasha wondered.

“Right now, that’s pretty much everyone,” Clint noted dryly. “Cory says it varies. Some immortals project more of an intensity than others.” He grimaced. “I met Connor MacLeod two weeks ago. He’s like getting hit with a tsunami wave.”

“That’s messed up, man,” Sam said. “So how do you know if you’re going to be immortal?”

“Cory said unless someone tells you, you don’t,” Clint replied. “And to answer the obvious question – as far as I know, no one else on the team is a pre-immortal. Sorry.”

Sam shook his head. “No, nothing to be sorry for.” He eyed the other man. “Do you feel the pain of dying in reverse when you revive?”

“No. Usually just feel dehydrated and sore. Not sure if I want to find out more than that,” Clint replied. “As much as I’m glad to be alive, I remember how I died. That’s bad enough.”

Sam nodded. “Well, I’m glad you’re not dead, but damn, you scared me.” He looked at Natasha. “Next time, warn me? And why aren’t we telling the staff of this facility this?”

“Because it’s easier to keep a secret if it’s limited to a few people,” Clint noted. “And given the nature of this one being something that will affect people none of us know, I’d like to be sure we don’t accidentally leave open a door for a headhunter to come here.”

“Got it. Anything else I should know?”

Clint hesitated before reaching down and grabbing his sword from where he had propped it against his chair. He laid it down on the table. “This is my sword. It was made in the fifteenth century for an archer as a backup weapon for when he ran out of arrows. Cory gave it me.” The sword had a short leather-wrapped handle, a simple curved guard, and a three-foot length. “If you ever see it somewhere it shouldn’t be, I’m in trouble.”

Sam whistled softly. “That’s a hell of a gift.”

Clint nodded. “Yeah. One other thing: I haven’t told Thor, Bruce, Scott, or Tony yet. I’d appreciate if you didn’t tell them without me.”

Sam considered it before reluctantly agreeing. “If they ask–”

“Tell them to come see me,” Clint said firmly. “Anything else?”

“No. But I swear y’all live to give me a heart attack.”

Hearing the hint of teasing in Sam’s tone, Clint relaxed. “Not my intent.” He turned to Steve. “Anything else you want to discuss while we’re here and have the ‘do not record anything of this conversation’ protocol turned on?”

“What did Connor MacLeod want from you?” Steve asked.

“Wanted to know who taught me how to wield a sword. He had a case of rare Scotch riding on it and didn’t want to lose to an Englishman.” Clint grinned briefly. “He called Matthew McCormick ‘that Sassenach,’ in an accent that told me he remembered when he fought against the English.”

Natasha looked at him as Wanda grinned, picking up the image of the scene Clint deliberately allowed her to see. “He bet on who taught you?”

“I got the sense he and Matthew, Cory’s teacher, have had an ongoing gamble on a lot of things,” Clint said, shrugging, “and I didn’t like the way he was talking to me about it. Turns out he was worried about Cory. Once I assured him Cory was fine, he dropped the asshole act.”

“Did he give you any reason to think he would be a problem for you in the future?” Natasha wondered.

“No,” Clint said firmly. “But I wouldn’t want to piss him off. If he won against an immortal who started a mini-Gathering, that means he is not anyone I want to face in a sword duel.”

“Are all immortals such remarkable people?” Sam wondered.

Clint looked at Sam. “For the record, immortals are as good or as bad as anyone else. Connor has a cousin named Duncan; they’re known as the Highlanders, and they’re considered the best players on the side of good in the Game. Cory, on the other hand, is a thief, a prankster, a con artist, and a scamp. He doesn’t care who wins or loses in the Game unless it involves him, and he’s just as likely to run from a fight as he is to convince someone else to fight for him – and then steal the Quickening. I’d still trust him with my life; just not necessarily anyone else’s, and even then, he’s likely to screw me over to get what he wants.”

“So if he comes asking for help, I should tell him no?” Sam asked.

“Repeatedly and emphatically, unless he’s clearly injured and not faking it.”

“Which he might do,” Wanda interjected. “Ask me if you need help figuring out if he really needs help. He’s met me and knows what I can do.”

“You scared him,” Natasha noted. The look she sent Wanda was filled with approval and pride. “He thought he could convince us he was mostly harmless.”

“Which he is,” Wanda agreed. “He just also likes to do things that other people don’t find to be as harmless as he thinks they are.”

“Which brings up a question: do you know how long he’ll be in Paris?” Steve wondered.

“About a month,” Clint replied. “It’s why he asked me to meet an immortal friend of his for dinner on Friday night; he wouldn’t be able to take Emily to dinner, and he didn’t want to stand her up.”

Natasha looked intrigued. “How come?”

“My guess is Emily is his teacher’s teacher, and someone he respects deeply regardless of that connection. Emily said Cory calls her his warrior queen.” To Steve, Clint asked, “Why does Cory’s absence matter?

“Because I heard something –” Steve stopped himself. “This part needs to be in the record. Julie, end protocol Avengers Confidential Level 1.”

“Protocol Avengers Confidential Level 1 concluded. Regular audiovisual recording and computer functions have resumed. Please proceed with your meeting when ready, Captain Rogers.”

“Thank you, Julie. As I was saying, a friend of mine in Paris has heard rumors of an organization using some of the abandoned HYDRA offices. For what, no one is entirely sure, but–”

“– there are too many whispers and just enough truth to make you wonder,” Wanda summarized. “Would you like me to find out?”

“Take Natasha with you. I don’t think it’s a wild goose chase, but it might be; you and Natasha would be faster and less noticeable than if I showed up.”

“Should Sam and I go as backup?” Clint asked.

“Not yet. We’ll use a private charter to transport Wanda and Natasha; the less we use the Quinjet for transport, the less we alert our enemies. If you hear from any of your friends in Paris, the organization is rumored to be led by a Daniel Doucette.”

Clint frowned, remembering what Ceirdwyn had told him. “Not the Daniel Doucette of Doucette Winery?”

“That I don’t know. Why?”

“Friday night, Cory asked me to do him a favor: meet a friend of his for dinner. Said friend turned out to be Emily Harris, who took me to an art auction and dinner fundraiser on Staten Island held at Denise McKensie’s home. Emily is a textiles artist whose work regularly sells for thousands of dollars. She told me that a Peter Doucette would be there, and that he had a reputation for convincing young artists that he would fund their art in exchange for being his lover.”

Steve frowned at that news. “Julie, can you confirm any links between Peter Doucette and Daniel Doucette? And tell us who both men are?”

“They are cousins. Peter’s father was Daniel’s mother’s brother,” Julie, the Avengers Facility’s AI, announced as she brought up holographic screens that projected photos of the Doucettes. “Peter made his fortune as a wine and liquor importer. Since 1990, he has specialized in exclusive, hard-to-find vintages and brands for a select clientele. His cousin, Daniel, owns a historic vineyard outside of Paris that has consistently made award-winning wines; the vineyard has been in the Doucette family since the early 1800’s.”

Natasha studied the photos the AI had thrown up on screen for them to see. Both men had been photographed holding wine glasses. Peter had posed in front of a selection of liquors with a smirk on his face, as if he knew something the photographer didn’t. Daniel stood in a wine cave, holding a half-empty glass of wine aloft. He radiated casual arrogance, as if he thought his winery produced the only wine in the world that mattered. Both men were in their fifties, Natasha estimated, with a preference for high-end suits. Both wore makeup in their photos, which made her think it was to cover the effects of their love of alcohol. There were other clues, subtle things that made her think the cousins were rich and highly functional alcoholics.

“They like to drink and they think they’re entitled,” Natasha summarized, “to whatever they want because they have inherited wealth, money they’ve made that’s separate from said wealth, and power because of the connections they and their family have.”

“Doesn’t that make them not our targets? I mean, I’ll take your word that they’re scum,” Sam told Natasha, “but I’m not hearing the part where we need to do anything. We’re not the cops or Interpol.”

“Which is why I’d like Natasha and Wanda to figure out if all we do is tip off Interpol or do something more,” Steve interjected calmly. “Anything else you can tell us about Peter?”

“He’s a creep. An equal opportunity creep, mind you, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer from an artist named Val Yáñez. I had to intercede; he then stared daggers at me the rest of the evening. Val left before dinner was served; she didn’t stay to see her jewelry get auctioned. Peter tried to get both her work and Emily’s but was outbid both times. He wound up with one artist’s work, but it’s an artist who doesn’t give a damn about whatever Peter wants.”

“Who’s that?” Steve wondered.

“A former successful child star turned painter named Rob Rosenthal.”

“Serves him right,” Wanda noted. “Do you think Peter will retaliate?”

“Emily didn’t think so, but Peter struck me as someone whose idea of no is, ‘okay, you told me no yesterday and no today, so that means maybe you’ll tell me yes tomorrow.’ He’ll stop persisting eventually, but only if someone new grabbed his interest more.”

Steve grimaced at that. “In that case, both of you be careful,” he told Natasha and Wanda. “Don’t assume anything.”

“We will. I’ll let you know when we leave,” Natasha assured him. “Anything else we should know?”

Steve added a few logistical details before concluding the meeting. Steve left the room, leading the way as he always did; Wanda and Natasha followed him. Clint walked out with Sam, wanting to be sure he was okay with the revelations. “We good?” he asked Sam.

Sam met his eyes as they paused in the hallway. “Hey, now I won’t be worried about you breaking your back when you leap off tall buildings with only a rappelling arrow to secure your landing.”

“Oh, I’ll still break my back,” Clint assured him. “I just will be able to get up a hell of lot faster.”

Sam winced at that image. “How do you not go crazy with the pain?”

“It’s like when you stab yourself on rose thorns. You say, ‘Ow,’ and you forget about it a second or two later because the pain wasn’t that memorable.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “But at some point, that’ll add up, especially given the level of trauma you can survive.”

Clint smiled briefly, hearing his concern. “I know where to find you if it comes to that, but I’m also certain someone like Connor MacLeod would know qualified people. What he did back in ‘83 had to have made him need to talk to someone, and I can’t imagine we don’t have trained counselors and psychologists among our kind.”

Sam acknowledged that with a nod. “Well, if I’m not needed, I’m going to head down to get some lunch. You coming?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Clint agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is gonna be a long monster, but I know what I need to make happen. :-) As always, feedback appreciated!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kaluga’s Sporting Goods is not a real sporting goods store. In my head, it's like a Cabela's or Bass Pro Shops.

The following day, a junior agent led Clint to a conference room somewhere in the labyrinth of the FBI’s Manhattan office.

“Supervisory Special Agent McCormick will be with you shortly,” the agent told him before shutting the door.

Habit had him noting the location of the cameras. He doubted the wall hid a two-way mirror, but he couldn’t shake the sense he was stepping into an interrogation. Clint hid a grim smile and deliberately relaxed. He could feel another immortal around. The immortal warning beacon was short-ranged, but it usually indicated another immortal was anywhere from a block away to the next room over.

Clint wasn’t kept waiting long. At 2 pm, Matthew McCormick stepped into the room, bringing with him the sharp sense of an old and strong immortal. Even without the FBI-issue suit, Clint knew he would have categorized Matthew as a cop from the way he stepped into the room, took in the way Clint lounged in the stiff metal chair, and made a calculated assessment. Matthew looked to be the same height as Clint, with a medium build, wavy brunette hair, an oval face with a sharply angled chin, and deep-set gray-green eyes. He looked like someone who constantly fought a war against a beard that kept wanting to grow. When he introduced himself and they shook hands, Matthew’s handshake was firm and professional, but Clint noted the sword and gun callouses.

“Glad you could meet me, Mr. Barton,” Matthew sat as he sat down at the table across from Clint. “I’m Supervisory Agent Matthew McCormick, the agent assigned to investigate unusual cases.”

“Always glad to help the FBI,” Clint said evenly. “What can I do for you?”

“Were you at the fundraiser at Denise McKensie’s home this past Saturday night?”

“Yes, I was with Emily Harris as her date.”

“Did you, at any time, speak to Peter Doucette?”

“He was harassing one of the artists, Val Yáñez. I didn’t like how he wasn’t accepting her no, so I found an opening where I could interrupt and lead Val away.”

“You didn’t touch him?”

Clint shook his head. “No. He spent a good half hour staring daggers at my head afterwards. Emily told me Peter Doucette was the kind of guy who thought he was God’s gift to hungry, young, naïve artists, and he tried to win her work to get her to talk to him. He lost that bid, and the one on Val’s work, but he didn’t leave empty-handed.”

Matthew met his gaze. “Where were you between 1 AM Sunday and 9 AM Monday?”

“I dropped off Emily at her townhouse around 1, and then went to my condo in the Bronx. I was there until 6 pm, when I left to drive up to the Avengers Training Facility.”

“Do you have any witnesses to your whereabouts?”

Clint grinned. “Depends. Do you trust that I wouldn’t have programmed an AI to lie?”

Matthew raised an eyebrow. “You have an AI monitoring your security?”

“I’m an Avenger,” Clint said flatly.

“Fair enough. Can you provide the records from your AI?” Matthew pulled out a business card and laid down in front of Clint.

Clint picked up his phone and activated the app that connected him to Julie. “Julie, please provide Supervisory Special Agent McCormick with the information he needs to corroborate my whereabouts for last Sunday. I have his contact information here.” He snapped a photo of Matthew’s business card.

Clint smirked when he heard an incoming email chime sound on Matthew’s phone seconds later.

Startled, Matthew looked at his phone and whistled softly. “I can see where you would get spoiled, having that sort of responsiveness.”

“It’s handy,” Clint agreed.

“You don’t deny you had a confrontation with Peter Doucette.”

“I don’t, but I didn’t think his inability to accept a no was worth killing him over, even if he did make Emily and Val both annoyed at his behavior. I was there on a date, and I was much more interested in attending a fancy dinner party where the only job I had to perform was ‘don’t show how much of a hick you actually are.’”

Matthew didn’t laugh at the joke Clint made. “You also had a confrontation with Andrew Manning. Word is you embarrassed him.”

“He embarrassed himself. I don’t kill everyone I meet, Agent McCormick.”

“Then how do you explain this?” Matthew laid a photograph on the table. In it was a decapitated body, the chest punctured full of arrows. Clint recognized the dead man as Andrew.

Clint eyed Matthew. “You can’t seriously think I’d be that sloppy. Or that inaccurate that I’d miss the heart with my first arrow and have to finish the job by slicing off his head.”

“You are an assassin. One who uses a bow and arrows as his signature weapon.”

Clint leaned back in his chair. “And an ex-carnie and an Avenger. Your point?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t exist anymore, and the Avengers don’t get paid to save the world. How do you survive?”

Clint favored Matthew with a thin smile. “With a little help from my friends. My days as a freelance mercenary ended when S.H.I.E.L.D. hired me. I’ve got better things to do with my life than to work for the kind of people who’d hire mercenaries to do their dirty work. You and the rest of the FBI need to update your references: I don’t kill every person who dies of arrow wounds. You keep bringing me into ask if some dead person was my kill.”

That caught Matthew’s attention. “This isn’t the first time the FBI has asked you about an arrow-related death?”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Not even the third. It got so bad that S.H.I.E.L.D. had a screening process to weed out that request, and I only had to show up every so often. This feels like you wanted to see what I’d do, in part to meet me and partly to clear me. Am I right?”

Matthew favored him with an unimpressed look.

Undaunted, having received similar looks from Natasha, Clint continued, “What you have here is someone likes to play with arrows. The ones I shoot are custom; you won’t find the shafts in any sporting goods store because Stark makes them for me.” He studied the photo again. “These are the ones sold by Kaluga’s Sporting Goods for deer hunting with a crossbow – they’re purple.”

“How do you know that?”

“My favorite color is purple,” Clint shrugged. “And I bet you know exactly how to tell a certain make of a handgun from just a glance. When you like something, you remember stuff.”

Matthew studied him a moment, then sighed. “What you’re telling me, then, is that anyone could have picked these up at any Kaluga’s Sporting Goods in the country.”

Clint nodded. “They’re nationwide and the biggest retailer of archery equipment. They tried to get me to sign off on a Hawkeye branded bow a few years ago but the sample bow they sent me was a joke – it arrived broken in the box. They tried to blame the shipping company, but the second and third ones they sent were also broken, but in different ways. I said no after that.”

Matthew stared at him, then shook his head. “You’ve had no dealings with Andrew Manning prior to Saturday night?”

“Didn’t know who he was,” Clint told him. “He thought the Battle of Manhattan and what happened in Sokovia were made up by Hollywood. I told him he was free to believe whatever he wanted, but I wasn’t going to defend myself to idiots. Yvonne Buenrostro was the one who smacked him down, and then James King added his two cents. I didn’t really talk to Andrew after that.”

“Understood. I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me, Mr. Barton.” Matthew put the photograph back in the file folder he had been holding, then extended his hand for Clint to shake.

Clint rose to his feet and shook hands with Matthew. “You’re welcome.” Clint turned towards the door, when Matthew stopped him.

“One last question. Who taught you how to wield a sword?”

Clint grinned and turned to face him. “As I told Connor: the circus. You two are going to have to find something else to bet on; that one’s a stalemate.”

Matthew looked astonished, then chuckled. “I see. Agent Coldwell will escort you out.”

⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞⤞

Once out of the building, Clint dug out his wireless headphones from his inside jacket pocket and connected them to his phone. “Julie, would you please let me know who Andrew Manning was?”

“Andrew Manning is the son of Clara and William Manning, whose wealth is primarily in food distribution and warehousing, dating back to the first William Manning, who owned one of the city’s first icehouses in 1831. The family was among the few old-line wealth families in the city to keep their wealth despite the Great Depression,” Julie said. “Andrew was not interested in the family business; the terms of his parents’ wills stipulated that Andrew received a stipend, but that control of the family business was handed over to the board of directors.”

“Andrew didn’t have anything to do with the family business?”

“He had a majority share but voted by proxy through his lawyer. Andrew preferred to spend his time with other people like him, not worry about business.”

“But he’s not like me.”

“No. Clara was quite vocal about how bad her pregnancy was; she was determined to let the world know that pregnancy was not something women should be quiet about.”

“I see,” Clint said, and silently wished Matthew good luck in figuring out the killer.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Clint considered. He had two hours to kill before he was due to meet Emily, who had sent him the address of the restaurant she had picked out for dinner earlier that day. Julie had warned him that parking in Manhattan was difficult and expensive, but he disliked riding the subway. “How long to get to Emily’s workshop?”

“In current traffic conditions, it will take you an hour and five minutes,” Julie told him. “Parking options in the area of your destination are limited, which will increase your total travel time.”

He grimaced at that report; Julie had routed him to a garage nearby, but it was still a few blocks’ walk. “In that case, tell me how to get there, and let me know if traffic gets worse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always - constructive feedback, suggestions on where it goes from here, and kudos always welcome.


	6. Chapter 6

June 9, 2019 update: this fic was an experiment to see if I could run with an idea, and I'm out of ideas. Thanks to YMFaery for helping me figure out a few things, and if and when I ever finish this, this note will be deleted with the real chapter. Thanks to everyone who read this far and put kudos and comments on this - for you, I'm leaving it up.   
\- Raine


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